


The First Born Son

by Steggellettea94



Series: 13 Ghosts Rewrite [1]
Category: Original Work, Thir13en Ghosts (2001)
Genre: Child Death, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 01:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steggellettea94/pseuds/Steggellettea94
Summary: In the Black Zodiac, the First Born Son is a young boy killed by a head injury. In the movie, Billy Michaels was a rude boy who died through a violet game of Cowboys vs. Indians. This ghost story is not quite the same.





	The First Born Son

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of the movie Thirteen Ghosts. Each short story will follow one of the ghosts, how they died, and how they were taken to the house. The Thirteen Ghosts Wiki says the First Born Son is represented by Aires, the ram; as a bonus - for lack of better word - twelve of the stories will contain the symbol of the astrological zodiac - a ram, a bull, twins, ect. 
> 
> These are my interpretations of the Black Zodiac - if I had been given the premise of Thirteen Ghosts and the Black Zodiac, what I would do with it. It's not so much a fanfic as it is a rewrite.
> 
> Not beta-read.
> 
> Word count: 5,955

The large oak tree glowed in the early summer morning, an eerie yet familiar presence. The sun crawled over the horizon, gently bathing the suburban neighborhood in a golden-pink light, illuminating the tree and catching the morning dew on its bright green leaves. The leaves were brighter in the day; it appeared now like a curtain being lifted, the light on the stage slowly revealing something marvelous. Everything glittered and sung. It was quiet. All the more so for a day like today.

Two small faces watched the sun rise, watched as the light caught the tree and casted a magnificent dark gray shadow across their manicured lawn and the street before it. Their bright eyes, lidded with sleep but burning with bright curiosity watched a bird gently land on the tree, crow, and hop down the branch.

One of the children, eight year old Fern, leaned her forehead against the glass pane, cushioning it with her blonde bangs. She peered down the length of the tree, resting her eyes at its base where, for the past six years, a rabbit family called the twisted roots home. Her brother, Douglas, smushed his round nose against the glass, his breath turning it opaque. He couldn’t quite see over the window ledge, follow his sister’s line of sight, so he settled on gazing at the top of the tree.

He always wondered what it would be like to climb up that high. Douglas unfurled a chubby hand and rested it on the glass as if he could feel the bark under his soft skin. His mama told him he couldn’t climb yet - he was too small. But his sisters were small and they - they could climb to the top. They often did so, squealing with laughter as they climbed higher and higher, disappearing amongst the green leaves and labyrinth of branches. Douglas watched them, giggling along with their shouts of laughter and wondering when he too could climb amongst the birds and the squirrels, climb higher than all four of his sisters.

Douglas turned his face against the cool glass to look at Fern. Her eyes were still fixed on the rabbit hole.

“When do we go?” he quietly asked her.

Fern didn’t say anything. A fat crow landed next to the tree and hopped forward. It cocked its head before plunging headfirst into the soft grass. It jerked up, something slimy clutched in its damp beak. The bird turned and looked up at the children, it’s black eyes staring into their blue and hazel ones, the slimy thing squirming half-heartedly in its beak.

Fern pushed back from the window, disgusted. Douglas watched the bird for minute longer before it flew away, its prize still in its beak. His sister blinked and smoothed her hand down her pink pajamas. She seemed to register that he had said something and whispered, “when they go out.” She glanced around their room. “We need to get dressed. Come on, Dougie.”

She set about pulling clothes from the dresser, something their mama did every morning - at least for the two of them. She had done it for years, picking out her children’s clothing, and would have continued to do so until Lavender vehemently told her that she was well old enough to pick out her own outfits. It was true, so their mama resigned to helping her younger four; until Iris pitched a similar fit three days later. Now it seemed mama decided nine was the cut-off age; so long as Fern and Douglas remained under nine years old, she would choose their clothes for them. Today, however, they had important business that mama couldn’t be a part of.

Douglas rubbed his sleep-flushed face and allowed Fern to dress him in a t-shirt and shorts. She pushed her hair into a ponytail and slipped on a large sweatshirt and green shorts. Douglas yawned and turned towards the window. The tree stared back at him, glowing golden-green now that the sun had completely risen.

There was a soft, creaking throughout the house. Douglas looked back at his sister. Fern stopped and raised her eyes to the ceiling, then left and right. She leaned into her brother and whispered, “I think that’s them. Let’s go.”

She took Douglas’s hand and gently opened their bedroom door. No sound. She glanced down the hallway to their parents’ room before clutching Douglas’s hand tighter and tugging him down the hallway after her. The doors to their sisters’ rooms were ajar.

At the foot of the stairs, Fern stopped and helped Douglas put on his sneakers, before tying her own. Bright green to match her shorts; her favorite color as of late. Douglas looked out the small window on either side of the door. The glass was opaque, blurring the outdoors. He could see the tree though, a dark and welcoming site, looming solid against the golden light of the morning sun. Two smaller shapes ran around the tree, scampering like eager squirrels.

Fern finished tying her shoes and gripped Douglas’s hand before opening the front door as slowly as possible. It creaked open, gently, and the two slipped out.

Their older sisters were standing by the tree, waiting. Lavender dressed in a similar manner to Fern - though it was more like Fern was dressed in a similar manner to Lavender; Lavender had worn the same thing all summer: white shirt, jean shorts, brightly colored socks, white converse covered in sharpie squiggles, and a large hoodie she bought in Disneyland. Her hair was also in a ponytail, high and tight compared to Fern’s. She smiled as Fern and Douglas approached.

“We waited for you,” she announced, as though she deserved a medal for her rare bout of patience.

“Thank you,” Douglas whispered. His sisters ignored him.

“We wanted to make sure you came out first -” Fern began.

“Told you we’d come out when the sun came up.” Iris stood with her hands on her hips. She stared at Fern and Douglas, daring them to challenge her. Neither responded. Lavender and Iris had been clear on their plan; it was Fern’s nerves and cautious nature that led them to be late. While the oldest two girls were loud and rule breakers, Fern was always hesitant to break their parents’ trust, and remained caught in the pull between pleasing her older sisters and being “the good child” out of the five. It was easy to get lost when you were one of four girls.

That was nowhere as true than it was for Poppy, the middle Reiner child at nine years old. Even with her red curls - she was the only one of the children to inherit their mama’s hair - she faded into the mass. She was not the oldest nor the loudest; those titles went to twelve year old Lavender and ten year old Iris. She was not the youngest nor a boy - both things which set Douglas apart from the older four. Like Fern, she was there. Almost an afterthought, another girl, another failed attempt at a son.

Lavender looked up at the tree and grinned. Any patience she claimed to have had evaporated when the youngest two came out the door. She kneeled down and leaped up, like a frog, latching onto a low branch and hoisting herself up. She began climbing earnestly, grin not leaving her face. Iris climbed after her, and soon, Poppy was in the tree, although she moved much slower and cautiously than the others. Fern looked up then back down at Douglas.

“Here.” She grabbed him round the middle and stood on her tiptoes, stretching her arms and little brother out towards the nearest branch. He grabbed it and pulled himself up. Fern quickly followed suit. They continued like this for a while, trailing after the others, slowly, until the were at level with Poppy. Perhaps it was her desire to be set apart, or maybe she was tired of taking care of her brother, but Fern jumped up to the next branch without him.

Douglas looked to Poppy, sitting on the branch nearest him. She seemed to be out of it, staring down the street. Douglas scooted down his branch and followed her line of sight. There didn’t seem to be anything interesting or new. The sun was higher, the shadows from created in dawn almost all gone. Rows and rows of houses with slightly different exteriors on either side of the road; all neutral, all perfectly manicured lawns, all facing a new sidewalk. A modern take on the 1950’s wet dream.

A large black truck shattered the peaceful scape. It wasn’t so much noise as it was out of place; all the cars here were nicely tucked away in their garages. Poppy’s eyes widened and she turned to shout at the girls.

Douglas watched the truck drive closer until it was parallel with their house. The engine turned off, and he could see a silver marking on the side. He wasn’t familiar with cars, but Douglas recognized that one, a truck he had referred to as Toy Ram since he could talk. Their uncle Earl was here.

A burly blonde man jumped out of the driver’s side and slowly walked to the front door. He knocked.

“Shit, I didn’t think he’d be here this early.”

The other girls had climbed down to Douglas and Poppy’s level. Iris glared at their uncle at the door. Fern looked up at Lavender.

“Does this mean we have to get down?”

The front door opened and Rose Reiner appeared. She seemed to have expected him, as she was already dressed in a cotton blue dress and out of the overlarge Juilliard shirt she wore to bed. Mrs. Reiner grinned at Earl and gestured for him to come inside. He grinned back, scrapped his shoes on the welcome mat and followed her in. The door closed with a resounding click.

The five Reiner children looked at one another. “He’ll be in there for a while,” Lavender finally said. “We’re fine. We’ll get down when he comes back out.” She grabbed onto a branch and pulled herself up. The others quickly followed suit.

Douglas looked up. Amongst the branches, he could make out the bottoms of three sets of sneakers - Poppy’s pink vans were nowhere in sight. He looked back out at the street. A part of him wanted to sit and wait, knowing he couldn’t, shouldn’t climb without his sisters. But another part of him…

Douglas looked up again and shakily got to his feet. He held his hands out in front of him and gripped at the trunk. So rough and so big compared to his four year old hands. He ran his hand down it for a moment before shifting his feet and reaching for the nearest branch. Douglas pushed off from the trunk and jumped, hanging onto the branch before carefully pulling himself up. He sat on the branch, a grin overtaking his face. He made it. A giddy bubble rose up inside him. He climbed. Just like Poppy, and Fern, and Iris, and Lavender, he climbed. He looked up at the next branch and, with a bit more speed and assurance than before, climbed up.

It was maybe ten minutes before the front door opened again. Earl came out and made his way over to the Toy Ram. Douglas, now several feet above the ground, watched as he opened the door and pulled out a chainsaw. He leaned forward, gripping the branch to steady himself. He hadn’t seen one of those up close before, and though he was rather high in the air, it was still fascinating for the young child.  
Earl walked over to the tree, pulling at a chord connected to the saw. He pulled and it roared - no, grumbled, like an irritated cat. He pulled again and again. Finally, it let out a consistent, low purr. The man adjusted his grip and began to saw through one of the low lying branches the Reiners had used to climb up.

The tree trembled and shook, leaves gently falling down, as though abandoning a sinking ship. Douglas held onto his branch tighter. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t shout out for his sisters; instead he watched, enraptured as the bright silver teeth cut into the bark over and over again, until it fell with a quiet thump. The oak suddenly felt lighter, lopsided, though whether the man really made an impact or Douglas was imagining it, he could not be sure. The man moved onto another branch. As each branch fell, Earl leaned over and picked it up before tossing it into a pile.

“Earl! Earl! Stop - stop now!”

His uncle turned around and Rose Reiner came flying out the front door, her husband not far behind her. Cormac, a blonde man well over six foot five, followed Rose at a much slower pace, like he was approaching a frightened animal.

Rose looked frantic, her red hair frazzled and blue eyes bulging. She pointed up at the tree. “The kids - the kids aren’t in their beds, they - fuck, they’re up there!”

Earl looked up, eyes wide. He pulled the chainsaw chord and the purring came to a halt. Cormac stood beside him and shouted, “What in God’s Hell are you doing up there?”

There was silence. Iris poked her head out of the mess of branches, several feet above Douglas and looked down at their parents. “We...we wanted to climb the tree before you -.”

“Get down.”

Cormac’s voice left no room for arguing. Grumbling, Iris popped back into the tree. Everything shook as she scampered back down. As she jumped from branch to branch, Fern, Poppy, and Lavender followed.

“Shit, Mac, I had no idea -.”

“Why would you?” he asked Earl. “Most kids are smart enough to stay the fuck away from the tree being cut down.”

Iris hopped down and dragged herself over to their parents and Earl.

“Who’s idea was this?” Rose asked. Her eyes were still wide, less wild and burning now with fury. Fern and Lavender landed on the ground. The younger two pursed their lips together, unsure of who they were more frightened of - their parents or their older sister.

Lavender bit her lip and rubbed her hand against her thigh. The action caught mama’s attention. “You?” she asked. “Lavender Mae, I -.”

“Where are the other two?”

The group turned back towards the tree. Douglas turned and followed their trajectory. Poppy had come closer to him, looking hesitant.

“Up here, dad,” she called out. Her eyes were firmly on Douglas; she didn’t seem to blink and Douglas found that he could not look away.

“Why are you still up there? Get down!”

“Dad...Dougie’s up here too.”

The adults had not been expecting that. Why would they assume the four year old was in the tree, let alone ten feet off the ground. They rushed to the oak, crowding around the base. Rose put her hand on her mouth, fear returning into her eyes and her face paling. Cormac and Earl looked lost for words.  
Douglas waved, “Hi.” His voice was hoarse and quiet. He kicked his feet a little, unsure of how to take all the eyes on him.

“How…?”

“Did you…?”

“He wanted up!” Iris looked desperate. “He wanted to know what we were talking about, so we told him and then -.”

“-Then he said he wanted to come and climb too, and we thought he would tell -” Lavender explained.

“-I didn’t want to leave him alone, so I gave him a boost, but then Lav and Ris were getting really high, and I wanted to too, so then -.” Fern added, tugging at Rose’s dress.

Rose did not pay her daughter attention. “Get him down, Mac,” she whispered. Her eyes had not left her youngest child. “Get him down.”

Cormac stepped forward, his brother echoing his movement, stretching their large hands towards the tree. Poppy moved closer to her brother, her hand out.

“Dougie,” she whispered. He looked at her. “Dougie, let me help you down -.”

“No!” Cormac shouted over her. His eyes were large and round, scared. Douglas didn’t like that. “Dougie, just jump into daddy’s arms; I’ll catch you.”

Douglas looked at his dad and uncle, their arms out as though they were praying. He looked at his mama standing just to the side of them, hands shaking and eyes bulging. He looked at three of his sisters, who in turn looked back at him with a mixture of awe and fear, finally realizing that taking their baby brother up the tree was not the best idea. He turned to Poppy, her hand still out towards him, her expression oddly calm. Mama and daddy wanted him down, he understood that. What he didn’t understand is why he needed help. The others didn’t, and he didn’t either. He even climbed several branches himself.

Douglas rose onto shaky feet, one hand balancing against the tree truck. He fingered the bark for just a moment and jumped to the left.

Crunching. Warm. Screaming. High screams and frantic shouting. Warm. Warm down his nose and lips. Red. Red dripping.

Douglas reached a hand out and petted the branch in front of him. Oh. It was turning red too, red like…  
Someone pulled him off while a door slammed. Screaming. Shouting from Earl. Crying. Something wet on his face - rain. Dropping onto his damp face. Yucky. It was gross.

 

***

 

The ambulance came six minutes later. By that point, there was not much they could do. Douglas Cormac Reiner stopped breathing a minute after he jumped and fell into the pile of tree limbs he uncle had taken down. Even if he had survived the jump, he had a broken leg, twisted ankle, and a couple broken ribs. That would have been preferable, no doubt, to the sight of the four year old child knelt over the pile, a branch piercing his skull, blood dripping steadily down his face and onto the debris, his bright hazel eyes quickly dulling. A broken child would have been a million times better than a dead one.

 

***

 

48 Years Later

The doorbell rang and Daisy answered. A tall man stood in the doorway. His clothes were dark, unusually so; the tailored suit, collared shirt, tie, and shoes were oddly the same shade of black, but looked like they belonged on a goth twenty-something year old in the early 2000s. He looked to be in his fifties at least, with a gray speckled beard, crow’s feet and laugh lines.

“Hello?” Daisy asked.

“Hello. I’m looking for a Mrs. Reiner-MacCready?”

“Which one?”

“Come again?”

Daisy sighed. She hated this question. It might have been entertaining when she was a child, but now it was just irritating. It was 2018 - why did people seem shocked when she asked them to clarify?  
“Which Mrs. Reiner-MacCready? Poppy or Rachel?”

“Ah.” The man raised his eyebrows. His lips quirked. She didn’t like that look, smug. He had no right to look that way when he didn’t even know her mothers shared the same name. “Poppy.”

“She’s in the dining room.”

“May I see her?”

“Who are you?”

He laughed. It was unnerving, quiet, like a joke made at her expense. Daisy didn’t like him. She looked at the door, wondering how much of a dick she would look like if she just shut him out.

“My name...I’m Clyde Bartlett; I work with your mother, Poppy.”

Daisy looked at him. She remembered the name, but couldn’t place where she heard it. On a name-tag at the pharmacy her mom worked at? Or over the loudspeaker at Charlie’s Hardware, where her mama ran the register? Hell, it could have been the name of one of the parents at her parent-teacher conferences - with nearly thirty excitable children to keep track of, each with their own complaints and grievances, she had difficulty matching the names of the parents to the child. Faces were easy - names not so much. However, Ryker hired all sorts of weird people at the hardware store, and like Daisy, her mama didn’t have a good memory - mostly. It wouldn’t have surprised Daisy if her mama had invited Clyde over and forgot.

“Okay,” she said finally. She opened the door a little wider, allowing the man - Clyde - to slide passed her. Daisy shut the door and led him down the hall into the dining room.

Poppy’s childhood home looked much the same as it did growing up. Wood floors scuffed with shoes of too many children; heavy, dated furniture lining the walls - everything lined up perfectly with the walls and baseboards. She and her wife had made several minor changes - taking off the garish wallpaper and painting the walls bright gray, exchanging the old oak furniture for vintage maple finds, replacing all the appliances - but it still felt like the home she grew up in. Modern but nostalgic.

The dining room was much the same, functioning as Poppy’s library then and now. White maple bookshelves stood against the walls, facing the arched doorway. A rainbow of books crowded the shelves, the only bright color in the room, save for Poppy’s dulling red hair. Rachel thought flags were tacky and juvenile, but a rainbow bookshelf was fairly subtle and pleasing to the eye.

Poppy sat at the head of the table, cradling a small green book. She preferred to read sitting up, back straight in a chair like her father; she blamed it on a bad back. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, looking strikingly like her mother, albeit in a hideous gray sweater with a cartoonish black cat on it. Rose Reiner had preferred simple dresses and blouses until the day she passed.

Daisy stood in the archway and knocked on the wall. “Mama?”

Poppy looked up. Her glasses were down her nose.

“Co-worker’s here.”

She stared, blinking at Daisy and the man.

“Clyde Bartlett?”

For a moment, she looked confused, then nodded. Daisy gestured for him to enter, while Poppy set her book aside and fixed her glasses. Clyde sat to Poppy’s left, and Daisy, after a moment’s hesitation, turned down the hall.

Poppy swallowed then said, “Clyde’s a ginger.”

Clyde laughed quietly. “I didn’t like the look. Dyed it.”

She stared, brows furrowing. Did Clyde dye his hair? She couldn’t remember. The man grinned, unnerving, eery. He shifted in his seat to face her.

“I was on the internet - just looking around - and I came across a few posts about you, Mrs. Reiner-MacCready. Or, rather, I found a few posts about this house, claiming it’s haunted.”

Poppy sat back further in her chair, eyebrows steadily raising. Her shoulders remained stiff and straight. “What do you know about this house?”

“Not much,” he admitted. “The posts were not clear. They claimed there was a ghost stalking this home, but no more.”

“He doesn't ‘stalk’ the house. He lives here.”

Clyde’s lip twisted up. Poppy didn’t say anything.

“You know the ghost?”

“I live here. Of course I know the ghost.”

“You don’t seem frightened.”

“Ghosts aren’t scary - they’re sad. They want to move on but are trapped.” Poppy pushed her glasses impossibly higher on her nose. She hesitated before continuing, “and it’s hard to be scared of a child.”  
The man’s grin widened. He leaned in slightly, his expression eager. Poppy looked back. That wasn’t the usual response she got when she talked about ghosts, let alone when she mentioned the ghost was a child. Usually she was written off as insane, an old lady stuck in the past - why else would she move back into her childhood home where tragedy had befallen her family? Clyde was a weird man.

“You...you sound kind,” Clyde said slowly as though he was thinking about his words, “like you know the ghost...intimately.”

“Yes.” Poppy felt she should leave it at that, but something was pulling her to keep talking. She hadn’t talked about him in years; her grandson loved the stories, but her daughter and wife...they thought she was crazy. She had learned to only confide her encounters with the ghost to her darling Clem. And while it was better than being left to her own thoughts, questioning whether or not she really had talked with a ghost, saying this to an adult, one who didn’t recoil or sigh at the mention of the entity, was refreshing, and she found herself eager to tell more.

She shifted in her seat, back remaining upright. “He...he was my brother, my baby, well, my only brother. He died when I was nine. We had an oak tree, and we - our sisters thought it would be fun to climb it before our uncle cut it down. He was brought up - I don’t remember which one of us thought it would be smart to do. We got caught, but not before Uncle Earl had sawed off a few branches. We all jumped and tried to help, but…” Those hazel eyes staring at her, large and earnest. Curious and driven. She could see it, even now, nearly fifty years later, the wheels turning in his mind, thinking about his sisters and how they jumped, and she saw how the temptation was just too great, and - Poppy closed her eyes. “He jumped into the branches and hurt himself.” Her throat tightened and she took a deep breath.

“How?”

Her eyes flew open. Pushing passed her clogged throat, she asked, “what do you mean ‘how?’ He fell into the fucking branches and got stabbed in the head. And there was nothing I could do. Dad grabbed him and tried to pull him off - mama ran inside - everyone was screaming - I...I tried to jump and get him, but Earl held me.” Tears gathered in her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but it broke the dam; she allowed tears to fall down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Clyde said. He did look apologetic. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I was just...curious. Ghosts are fascinating to me, as you know, and the prospect of one being in my hometown...once you said he was your brother I should have dropped it.” He was silent for a moment. Then he continued, “it must have been hard for your family.”

Poppy wiped her eyes on her sleeve and let out a choked laugh. He really cared about her limits, didn’t he? She might have to bring this up with Ryker. Or not. Honestly, she might forget by this evening. And even if she did remember come tomorrow, she probably wouldn’t bring it up, not wanting to cause trouble. “Yes,” she said simply. She had no desire to talk about the rest of her family. Dougie was one thing; a constant presence in the house, a pressure on her mind, like a migraine, and talking to someone was taking medication and laying in a dark room - soothing. Her family was more the bright light and loud noises that irritated the migraine and caused your skin to crawl.

It hurt more to talk of the emotional pain then the look on Dougie’s face when he fell. How her mama became almost catatonic for years before seeking psychiatric help, and even then, the medicine and therapy only seemed to give her a mask, a plastic smile she would place over her set-frown and take off before bed. How her dad buried himself in work before he too broke down, gave up his position at the construction company, and started drinking. How Lavender, wracked with guilt throughout her childhood shut down and shut up, going through the motions of adolescence, but finding no joy until she left home and found a psychiatrist who reminded her every session that she was just a child when it happened, and she was finally able to move on. How Iris, the most like their father, signed up for every sports team, put her anger and sadness into each throw, push, shove in every sport, succeeding and earning scholarships, while looking empty and blank. How Fern cycled through people - friends, colleagues, boyfriends - thinking she was not good enough. How it took all four sisters three decades before they managed to come up with something useful to do with their grief, and started planting trees and bushes and flowers on grave sites and in parks. How their dad started to wean off drinking to help, when it finally caught up with him and he passed, their mother soon after.

How none of them allowed their children to climb trees or even play near them.

Poppy swallowed and looked at Clyde. She felt tired, full of emotion like a popcorn bag in the microwave. “Can I help you with anything else?”

The man shook his head. “No. I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

Poppy felt as though she should have replied but she couldn’t think of what to say.

“May I use your restroom and then I’ll be on my way?”

She looked at him for a minute, then sniffed. She pointed through the arch. “Down the hall to your left. I’d show you myself, but…” Poppy looked down at her chair. A leg injury from several years ago left her using a cane, now propped against the side of the chair. The man nodded and stood. He walked out the room, while she grabbed a Kleenex and wiped her nose, tossing the used tissue in a nearby wastebasket.

 

•••

 

She should have followed him. Most people would have followed him. A strange man in their house, one that insists on talking about ghosts and a - pardon the pun - haunting past is not a man to be left alone. But the thing about dredging up the past is it puts a strain on the rememberer. It’s hard to be rational when you relive the trauma; it is why psychologist had such an easy time manipulating their patients to believe them to be correct. When you are emotionally vulnerable, you’ll believe anything, including the good intentions in others.

Clyde walked down the hall before veering right and climbing up the staircase, careful to avoid the squeaky tenth step. The internet had not mentioned the two Mrs. Reiner-MacCreadys, nor had any of their friends and coworkers he “accidentally” bumped into, though one of the grandson’s friends had mentioned the step when asked about playing at the house. Children were wonderfully useful.  
Daisy was downstairs in the kitchen, trying to clean and reconcile with her eavesdropping on their conversation. Rachel Reiner-MacCready was still at work. The only one upstairs would be the grandson, Clematis, and the ghost.

He heard giggling and peered into a bedroom, the door cracked slightly. A young brunette boy was reading a picture book to himself, tracing fat fingers over the bold lettering. His fingers stayed on the page too long and his eyes were focused on the pictures rather than the words; he was making up his own stories. A smile quirked his mouth. A funny story then. Or at least funny to a four year old. Clyde turned to continue down the hallway but stopped.

A little boy stared at him, his head cocked.

He looked remarkably like the boy in the bedroom. Dye his hair brown, give him a few freckles, and they could have been twins. His clothes were clean, and were it not for the hole in the middle of his forehead, Clyde would have thought his research had failed him and that Daisy did have another child running around.

Clyde pulled his trousers up around his knees and kneeled down. The boy didn’t come towards him, cocking his head to the other side.

“Hello,” Clyde said quietly. He reached his hand into his pocket and fingered the box gently. “Are you...are you Douglas Reiner?”

The boy’s eyebrows creased. “Who are you?”

“A friend of your sister’s...Clyde Bartlett.”

He nodded as though the name meant something. Clyde’s lips twisted up briefly. He was reminded of a 1990 TV show; the show was unremarkable except for the opening scene, where a young boy - just a couple years older than Douglas - refused to speak to the clown hiding in the sewer until he had learned his name, the clown remarking that it was very wise to not speak to strangers, but now that they were no longer strangers…

“How do you know my sister?”

“We work together, Douglas.” Clyde tilted his head. “Are you looking for something?”

“Not right now.”

“Really?” he asked gently. “Then why are you here?”

Douglas looked confused for a moment. He scrunched up his mouth and looked at his feet. “I don’t know,” he confessed. He scuffed his shoe along the wood floor. “Everyone was sad, and then I woke up.”

“Do you know why they were sad?”

He nodded solemnly. “The bad thing.”

“The bad thing?”

“Mama and daddy called it the bad thing. When...when I fell.”

“Ah.” Clyde shifted on his knees. “Do you miss your mama and daddy?”

Douglas nodded. “Yeah.” He bit his lip. “They were sad, they were all sad. Mama was the saddest. I think...daddy was next and then the girls were sad too.”

“Is that why you stayed?” Clyde asked. “You wanted to make mama happy again?”

“All of them. I wanted to make all of them happy.”

“And how did that turn out?” He looked confused. Clyde tried again, “Did you make them happy when you came back?” Silence. Douglas looked less confused, but now he looked distraught, his large hazel eyes turned on Clyde pitifully. “Is Poppy happy?”

“I tried to -” he insisted, “I tried to fix it, but only Pop and Fern could see, and then they told Fern that it was her mind playing jokes and then Pop still talked to me, and - and Clem talks and sees me and he’s happy!”

“But your sisters aren’t. And neither are your mama and daddy.”

Douglas sniffed. If he were alive, he would probably be crying. Clyde leaned in. “What if I told you...I could help you make everyone happy?”

He looked at him, hopeful. “How?”

“I’ll take you to your mama. She’ll be happy to see you free - away from here.” Most ghosts didn’t believe that; they were cynical and bitter towards anyone and everyone, and refused to believe that some living body had their best interests at heart. Child ghosts, especially ones as young as Douglas Reiner, were much more...pliable.

Douglas hesitated before nodding. “Okay.” He came forward and took Clyde’s hand. It wasn’t solid like flesh, but it wasn’t air either; it was something in between like a spider’s silk or cotton candy. Something gently existing in this plane.

Clyde held his hand and began leading him downstairs.  
“Where are you taking him?”

He turned his head to the bedroom door. Clematis stood there, his eyebrows furrowed much like his mother and uncle.

Clyde nodded to Douglas. “Home.”

“To see Mama,” Douglas explained.

They continued downstairs, bypassing the archway to the dining room and leaving through the front door. Clyde could hear a shout - “Why is he taking Uncle Dougie? Gamma, why is he taking Dougie?”- and scrambling in the house. He gripped the box tightly in his pocket and tossed it at the child ghost. Douglas looked up at him in shock, trust shattering on his pale innocent face, and an ugly look coming across his eyes as he disappeared into the box. Clyde picked it up and quickly walked to his car.

  
By the time Poppy had come to the front door, clutching the frame and panting, he was gone. She collapsed to the ground, sobbing, her daughter and grandson confused and clutching her.

 

 _2001 13 GHOSTS_  VS.  **2018 13 GHOSTS**

Black Zodiac: First Born Son is the ghost of a young boy who died due to a head injury. 

_Billy Michaels, a young boy around seven years old - maybe younger - died after a game of Cowboys and Indians gone wrong. He had been obsessed with the game and possibly a show by the same name. One of his friends found their dad’s steel-tipped arrows. He convinced Billy to play with him, and Billy, believing his guns would protect him, agreed. In life, Billy had been an angry child, determined to get his way._

**Douglas Reiner was only four years old when he fell off an oak tree and into a pile of tree branches. He had been a kind and curious child, but that didn’t stop the man - Clyde in this story - from taking him.**

_Billy was assigned Aires, according to the 13 Ghosts Wik_ i **; the ram zodiac made its appearance in Earl Reiner’s truck, the Toyota Ram.**


End file.
